


Desynchronisation, Reinitialising, Loading

by Mass_Effecting_Your_Pants



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Parody, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mass_Effecting_Your_Pants/pseuds/Mass_Effecting_Your_Pants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's rather hard to summarise what this fic actually is. One part parody, one part want-to-write-an-Assassin's-Creed-fic, and two parts my experience playing the game. Not to be taken seriously. I'm sure fellow AC gamers can relate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desynchronisation, Reinitialising, Loading

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.nt under the following:-
> 
> Title: Desynchronisation, Reinitialising, Loading  
> Category: Games » Assassin's Creed  
> Author: Mass Effecting Your Pants  
> Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
> Genre: Adventure/Parody  
> Published: 07-13-09, Updated: 07-13-09  
> Chapters: 1, Words: 3,491

Altaïr crouched on the edge of an overhang looking over the market place, watching his target carefully. Even when the guards were not on alert for his presence, he preferred moving through the city by staying out of the crowds. Plus, he may have been out of the city environment for a little longer than he realised, but the beggars in Damascus were quite persistent and…irritating.  
  
More than once he had been caught pick pocketing because his coordination and stealth had been thrown off by someone hanging off his arm pleading for money. Sure Altaïr probably shouldn't be picking pockets, but how else was he going to get his hands on some throwing knives…especially since he had been demoted and _technically_ shouldn't be using such a weapon anyway.  
  
But what the Master didn't know wouldn't hurt him…everything is permitted and all that.

"Thief! You are filth!"

"Please! I've done nothing wrong! Someone help!"

Altaïr sighed as his gaze moved from his interrogation target to settle on what was quite a familiar sight by this point in time. Apparently the guards didn't have anything better to do and had stooped to harassing citizens of the city.  
  
Judging by the harassment he had seen the guards dish out over the few days he had been in Damascus, the man wasn't in danger of being killed for at least a couple more minutes, as long as he didn't do anything stupid to provoke the guards further. Altaïr had spent almost a whole day waiting for his target to show himself in the market place, and really couldn't afford to deviate from his mission when he was so close to the opportunity to interrogate the town crier.  
  
As well, standing up to the guards for the people tended to attract a lot of attention and always ended in blood. It would also cause a panic in the area and the assassin was certain his target would be swept out of his reach during such a commotion.  
  
Still, leaving the helpless man to the guards for a little longer left a bad taste in his mouth, but was necessary.  
  
Altaïr's gaze snapped back to the town crier when he stepped off of the dais, walking across the market square and unknowingly out of the safety of the guards. The assassin slipped down a ladder unseen in to the alley his target was headed toward, confident and silent as he waited in the gloom of the shadowed lane.  
  
If all went well, he would have the information he knew the town crier to possess in moments and could then turn his attention to the peasant in need of-

"Oof!"

Altaïr went flying forward, thrown off balance spectacularly and sent careening in to another body out of the cover of the dim alleyway.  
  
The assassin's quick perception informed him of two things: some drunk villager had shoved him with strength Altaïr never would have credited the scrawny man with, and said drunk had shoved Altaïr in to a guard.  
  
Not just any guard, he sighed at the unfortunate turn of events, but a guard supervising the harassment of the helpless man. As well the shove had activated his hidden blade, which wasn't so hidden as Altaïr's hands flew out to steady himself.  
  
Altaïr counted six guards, and knew there to be two more just outside the market place that would likely be attracted by the chaos that would begin any-

"Kill the assassin!"

"Infidel!"

"Die, heathen!"

Altaïr drew his sword as villagers scattered and screamed, trying to spot his interrogation target as well as keep his foes in his sight, though in vain. His target had well and truly fled the scene.  
  
Altaïr pushed the disappointment and frustration aside as the guards closed in, felling three with little effort and watching with no small amount of horror, gratitude and amusement when one of the three remaining accidentally skewered another in fear before turning tail and running. Altaïr sent a knife whizzing after him, thinking he was doing the Damascus city security a favour really.  
  
The remaining guard backed up and eyed the assassin much more cautiously before yelling and leaping forward. Metal clashed against metal before Altaïr's left hand shot out and grabbed the soldier, using the other's momentum to send the guard crashing in to a stall. The timber splintered under the added weight, causing its already rickety roof to collapse in on the soldier. Whether he was unconscious or dead mattered little to Altaïr, who turned to the man who stood exactly where the assassin had first seen him, the only peasant now still in the area.

"Thank you! Thank you!" the man cried, paying the dead bodies little heed as he ran out of the market place. "The whole city will know of your kindness!"

"Actually," Altaïr began, cleaning his sword on a dead soldier's tunic, "I'd prefer if you kept this to your-"

"Assassin!"

Altaïr darted a glance over his shoulder to see that the two guards stationed outside the square had finally come to investigate the disturbance. He could stand and fight - and win - but that would waste energy. And he had just cleaned his blade.  
  
Altaïr sighed once more at the way in which events had spiralled out of his control, before sprinting toward the alleyway and the ladder he had used earlier. The two soldiers were hot on his heels, but lacked the speed and agility to match him, leaving them far behind as Altaïr leapt across beams and tilted roofs.  
  
Altaïr spotted a group of monks in the street below him that were dressed almost identically to the assassin, and he jumped down behind them, startling a jug carrier. The woman's grip on her load slipped and sent her pot crashing to the floor, spilling water and broken pottery in every direction. The assassin might have apologised but the noise had attracted too much attention, so he quickly joined the monks as they continued along the street, invisible among the pious. He travelled on the edge of the group for several more minutes, slowly moving away from both areas he had disturbed before blending back in to the crowd, seeking out a spot away from witnesses where he could escape to the roofs of the city once more.  
  
Settled again atop a high view point of a church, Altaïr planned what he needed to do, finally allowing frustration at the drunkard for ruining his careful planning, and himself for the situation to occur at all. The town square would now be off limits as patrols would be increased in the area and word would spread among the villagers about the commotion. As well his anonymity within Damascus was threatened since there was likely several witnesses to his actions and his clothing hardly allowed him to fully blend in.  
  
Altaïr swore aloud as he continued to glare down at the throng of people below. He _could_ carry out the assassination of Tamir without the information he would have gleaned from the town crier, but Altaïr always liked being completely prepared. Still, the poor district of Damascus would likely be on high alert after the several rescues of the people he had managed over the past four days, and the amount of guards he had killed to achieve these rescues.  
  
If he waited for the town crier to venture out again it would make ending Tamir's weapon smuggling and his life unnecessarily difficult with the added patrols by that point. A pilfered letter and an overheard conversation had provided Altaïr with enough information to know where and when Tamir was usually out and about, and this would have to be enough. The risk to wait much longer was too great.  
  
Decision made, Altaïr scanned the ground for a safe place to land for a leap of faith, leaping with the grace of an eagle only to miss his targeted haystack by mere centimetres.

* * *

**_Desynchronisation – Death…_ **

**_Reinitialising…_ **

**_Loading last memory…_ **

* * *

 

Altaïr stared down at his target, crouched on an overhang looking out over the market place. The town crier was screaming something about ignorance, violence and madness…though this was almost drowned out by the huge amount of beggars in the area.

"No, you don't understand! I'm poor and sick and hungry!"

"I beg of you, sir, I beg of you! Just a few coins please!"

Forgive my thoughts, Altaïr weakly and mutely asked of his god, but if they spent half as much time looking for work as they did begging… He shook his head, shaking the irritation away. Still, the relentless peasants holding their hands out for alms and clawing at him were half the reason the assassin moved around the city by avoiding the streets and people.  
  
It's not as if he had any money to give anyway; he certainly had no need for gold. Food and shelter was found at the Assassin's Bureau, information was muscled out of informants or traded, and he carried nothing but his weapons.

Returning his attention once more to his interrogation target, Altaïr wondered how much longer he'd have to wait. Glancing briefly at the sky, he determined he'd been listening to the town crier and waiting for an opportunity to 'ask' for information on Tamir since early morning…and the sun was shining high above him now.  
  
The informant must have repeated his speech dozens upon dozens of times at this point; Altaïr knew the man's spiel to the market place off by heart himself – and could likely mimic every pause and stress if asked, much to his dismay and boredom. The assassin hoped his target would step off the platform soon; he was perilously close to calling it a day.  
  
Altaïr's ears perked when he recognised the conclusion to the town crier's speech, unconsciously mumbling the words under his breath.

"They say this is a crusade," dramatic pause. "A crusade for what?" rhetorical question. "Ignorance?" rhetorical question again, slightly louder with a hint of anger. "Violence?" more anger to actually attract listeners. "Madness!" yelled loudly…scares some jug carriers in to dropping their pots, actually attracts listeners and must repeat entire sermon again because people are now paying heed.

Altaïr decided it was quite possible to accomplish Tamir's assassination without the knowledge this town crier possessed, and loosed a throwing knife unerringly toward his target. He enjoyed the result of his actions for barely a second before-

* * *

**_Informant interrogation failed…_ **

**_Reinitialising…_ **

**_Loading last memory…_ **

* * *

 

Altaïr watched the bustle of the market place from his unseen perch above, eyes zeroing in on his interrogation target. Scoping out the area, the assassin knew it was going to be difficult to corner the informant without becoming unduly exposed. He couldn't know which way his target would leave the market place, and needed to be aware of what was happening at every exit. Altaïr pulled apart his strategy again to be sure he was as prepared as possible.

Four exits. Two guards stationed at south entry, two at the north, none guarding the east and west exits and three soldiers patrolling the market stalls. With luck, the town crier would leave via the east or west exit. If target left to the south, there was a secluded alcove he could force the informant in to. If target left to the north, there was a dim seldom used alley that could be used just as well.

Altaïr was hoping to avoid entering the open market area; from his vantage point he could clearly spot several beggars and one or two drunk peasants who could cause the assassin trouble if he passed too near. As well the merchants seemed particularly persistent this day and were hailing anyone who strayed toward their stalls, interested or not.  
  
Altaïr trained his gaze on his interrogation target once more, pleased when the man finally concluded his speech and stepped off the dais, making his way toward the north exit. Despite having two soldiers stationed at the exit, it was always nice to be presented with the freedom of interrogating his target as thoroughly as possible, and the dank unused alleyway would provide the perfect ground for that.

The assassin followed the informant from the rooftops until they were free from any witnesses before leaping in to the street and yanking the man in to the alley.  
  
Altaïr pretended not to hear the man's terrified feminine shriek, and smacked him around a little so he knew the assassin meant business. It wasn't subtle, it was rather ham-fisted, but it did the trick.

"You seem to know of Tamir very well. Tell me everything."

The town crier, well, cried. "Please spare me! If Tamir knew of this he would kill me!"

Altaïr sighed inwardly – not many informants seemed to understand their predicament – and brought out his scary voice. "If you don't give me the information I know you possess, then _I_ will kill you _now_!"

The man sniffled, cowering as much as he could with the assassin's fist bunching his tunic threateningly. Altaïr wrinkled his nose suddenly, the acrid stench of urine permeating the air. Both he and his target looked down at the growing damp patch on the town crier's robes.  
  
The assassin sighed again, loosening his hold. Maybe his scary voice was a tad too scary…he'd have to ask the Rafiq at the Bureau. However this was quickly forgotten when Altaïr and his informant discovered they were not as alone as the assassin had initially thought.

The Templar, who had been lurking in a dank and dark alleyway for no obvious reason, drew his sword and waved it in their direction, yelling in his foreign tongue.

Altaïr wasn't sure if the knight was enraged because a) he was an assassin and thus an enemy, b) they had disturbed what ever the soldier was doing in the secluded alley, or c) hadn't even noticed his presence. Not that it mattered…the Templar's screaming had brought three guards running, and their yells of "Assassin!" and "The assassin's over here!" had more heavy footsteps thundering down the alleyway.

Altaïr pushed the blubbering informant away and pulled out his own blade, never one to back down from fighting the Brotherhood's true enemy. He was horrified speechless, though, when the Templar drew back his sword and thrust it deep in to the town crier's belly.

"…" said Altaïr as he listened to the very short death rattle of the target he had spent a full day tracking and a solid morning waiting to strike.

He stared at the Templar and immediately saw red.

"Oh my GOD!" the assassin yelled as he leapt forward, murderous intent clear in his eyes. "Do you have _any_ idea how _long_ I had to wait to get to this man?! You mother fuc-"

* * *

**_Informant interrogation failed…_ **

**_Reinitialising…_ **

**_Loading last memory…_ **

* * *

 

Altaïr followed his interrogation target from a distance, disgruntled. It seemed the informant wanted to do some last minute shopping before heading down a dark alley the assassin could attack him in.  
  
He sat down heavily on a nearby bench when his target began to haggle with a merchant over the price of a basket of vegetables; from earlier experience, Altaïr knew the process could take up to half an hour. Why, he wondered as he watched with extremely minor interest, why didn't the merchants just set a damn price for everyone to pay..? It would save an enormous amount of time and bother.  
  
Altaïr sighed and leaned back, ignoring the suspicious gaze of a peasant sitting beside him as he pulled out his short blade and began cleaning it to pass the time. Before he knew it, the assassin was caught up in the relaxing almost meditative work of caring for his tools, and jerked with horror quite some time later. His sharp gaze darted around the stalls but the informant had disappeared.  
  
Altaïr shot to his feet and ran down the street in the direction he had been following his target, barrelling people out of his way. He couldn't afford to have lost the precious information the town crier could give him, and it was all the more frustrating that he had only himself to blame for such a lapse.  
  
Altaïr skidded to a halt, staring across the crowded bridge. On the other side, disappearing in to the street was his informant, distinctive headwear marking him from the general populace. The assassin considered his options; he could push his way over the bridge. That would be slow due to the sheer amount of people crowding the path, and the many guards he would likely attract the attention of by trying to move suspiciously quickly. And even if he made it to the other side unopposed, the informant would be long gone.  
  
Altaïr's other option was to leap in to the canal and swim across. It would take much less time and, if he did it properly, wouldn't attract too much attention. Decision made, Altaïr vaulted over the railings and splashed in to the canal, where he promptly discovered he couldn't swim.

* * *

**_Desynchronisation – Death…_ **

**_Reinitialising…_ **

**_Loading last memory…_ **

* * *

 

Altaïr skidded to a halt, staring across the crowded bridge. On the other side, disappearing in to the street was his informant, distinctive headwear marking him from the general populace. The assassin considered his options; he could push his way over the bridge. That would be slow due to the sheer amount of people crowding the path, and the many guards he would likely attract the attention of by trying to move suspiciously quickly. And even if he made it to the other side unopposed, the informant would be long gone.  
  
Altaïr's other option was to leap in to the canal and swim across. It would take much less time and, if he did it properly, wouldn't attract too much attention. He peered in to the murky depths of the water, realising for the first time that it was actually sewage, its smell disguised by the cleverly planted fragrant trees and flowers along the canal.  
  
With his second option now not an option at all, the assassin pressed through the crowded bridge as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Reaching the other side faster than he could have hoped, Altaïr threw caution to the wind and sprinted along the street his target disappeared down, slamming in to apparently nothing and spinning sideways to crash in to a wall.

* * *

**_Error – memory cannot be accessed at this time…_ **

* * *

 

"What in god's name..?" Altaïr muttered, hands splayed over some sort of invisible barrier that only he could not pass.

* * *

**_Informant escaped. Informant interrogation failed…_ **

* * *

 

"No! You have got to be fuc-"

* * *

**_Reinitialising…_ **

**_Loading last memory…_ **

**_Cancelled…_ **

**_Animus deactivated and in sleep mode…_ **

* * *

 

"…in all my life seen such a useless assassin," Desmond could hear the Doc ranting as he left the room.

He sat up slowly, ignoring Vidic as usual. "Hey, Lucy, why'd we stop? We didn't really make any progress today."

Lucy pursed her lips as she tapped away at her keyboard, backing up the session's memory files. "No and that's the problem. Doctor Vidic is organising for Subject Sixteen to be brought back to work with the Animus."

Desmond frowned, sliding off of the machine. "Didn't you say that Subject Sixteen was in an irreversible vegetative state with only a five percent chance of being able to access their ancestor's memories and an eighty percent chance of dying while attempting to use the Animus and that their ancestor was actually an insane leper?"

* * *

**_Desynchronisation – The End._ **

* * *

 


End file.
